


It's a Wonderful Fucking Life

by SNQA



Category: Homeland
Genre: Advent Calendar, Christmas Miracle, F/M, Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 12:12:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8713480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SNQA/pseuds/SNQA
Summary: Peter Quinn's at the end of his rope.   But a guardian angel sent from heaven will help this suicidal ex-CIA assassin by showing him what life would have been like if he'd never been born.Advent Calendar Story for December 1





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FrangipaniFlower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrangipaniFlower/gifts).



> A huge thank you to my editing AFCs (Angels First Class), ascloseasthis and Leblanc1, who really should be listed as co-authors. Their intelligence, creativity and humor added so much to this story. I really would not have been able to pull this off without them! 
> 
> And to all the women of LJ, I hope this is just the beginning of a holiday season full of Homeland miracles.

Peter Quinn is not a man who believes in angels or in God, but as a wave of despair washes over him, flooding him in darkness, his eyes fill with tears and he whispers a desperate prayer.

  
"Please. I'm at the end of my fucking rope. Show me the way."

  
——

  
"He needs your help."

  
"Really? I have to help this asshole?"

  
"Language, please."

  
"He just used the word ‘fuck’ in a prayer and I can't say asshole?”

  
"You want to earn your wings, right?"

  
"Yeah, yeah. Fuck!"

  
“Language! Please."

  
"Shit, sorry. But you know he’s a fuckin’ assassin, right? Explain to me why we care about this asshole.”

  
“God can see into our hearts. _You_ would do well to remember that.”

  
“Fucking hell. Ok, fine. I'll do it. I'll help Peter Quinn."

  
——

  
Quinn slowly sips his Johnnie Walker Black as he thinks about her.

  
It has been seven months since his stroke, and two months since they’d released him from the rehab hospital. Carrie had insisted that he stay with her and Franny. She’d wanted to take care of him; he'd been too fucked up to argue.

  
The moment Quinn had crossed her threshold for the first time, Carrie began to take charge of his treatment, much like she was running an op, and they’d immediately resumed their familiar dynamic — almost as if there was some predetermined script they were being forced to act out. They’d discuss, they’d disagree, she’d persist and and he’d acquiesce — still powerless to say no to her. So much had changed, yet so much remained the same.

  
Broken — that's how he feels. Physically and mentally. She tells him the medication will help, but it doesn't. She’d said the therapy would help, too, but it hadn’t.

  
Her need to fix him is strong; his need to not disappoint her is even stronger.

  
So over the past six weeks, concealing his pain from her had become routine. Lying about going to therapy had become habit.

  
Instead, he’d make his way to the bar. Alcohol was the one thing that made him feel normal — relatively — numbing his fears and pain; enabling the delusion that his broken body was a consequence of inebriation, not the other way around. The rest of the time it was like looking into a cracked mirror; pieces of himself, distorted.

  
But Carrie’s been _there_ for him. Reliable, caring, present and patient. She’d seemed happy to be taking care of him while raising Franny and going to work every day. He's grateful. She's the only thing keeping him alive.

  
Yet, as the weeks passed, he’d begun to notice her exhaustion. And when she thought he wasn't looking, he’d catch her looking sad. Really, really sad. Then one night he’d heard her crying when she thought he was sleeping — sobbing uncontrollably. And that's when he knew. She wasn’t happy. She was pretending, just like him. She was pretending _for_ him.

  
A few days later, he’d heard her on the phone — _some_ spy skills still remained — venting to her sister about how much work it was to be his caregiver, that she’d needed to increase her meds to deal with all of it, cancel their trip to D.C. for Thanksgiving. _It would be too difficult for Quinn_ , she had told Maggie. She didn’t think he could handle the stress, and leaving him on his own was not an option. She wouldn’t abandon him. Not this time.

  
After that, he gets it — it's about guilt and pity. He's a burden. It's crystal fucking clear, and it's all he can see on her face and hear in her voice. He resents it, hates it. Hates her… _almost_.

  
Except he doesn't hate her. He loves her. He loves her so much that her pain is even more unbearable than his own.

  
But he realizes that, for Carrie, this is about atonement for her past sins and he's the beneficiary.

  
  
He can never go back. Never see her again. He needs to make things right; release her from this obligation that she never should have assumed.

  
His phone rings. He knows it's her without even looking.

  
"Yeah."

  
"Quinn, where are you? You promised you would be home for this. Everyone will be here in less than two hours."

  
"Fuck, Carrie. I've got time. I just needed some air."

  
"You know how important this is to me. And to Franny. Maggie, Bill, and the girls are coming up. Max will be here. I even convinced Dar and Saul to come. I haven't seen Saul since Berlin and I'm completely stressing out… you aren't at that bar, are you?" Her voice is accusatory, but tinged with worry. "It's Christmas Eve for fuck's sake."

  
"No!" Quinn fires back, as if she hadn't just called him on his bullshit.

  
"I'll be back soon. Promise." Quinn's voice softens, his lie painful, but effortless.

  
"Okay. But be careful. It just started snowing and the sidewalks are slippery."

  
"Christ, Carrie! I'm not a fucking child!" Quinn loses control, his frustration coming out as anger.

  
"I'm sorry. I just… I just don't want you to get hurt."

  
There it is again, that sound in her voice. Pity. Guilt. Not love. He's already hurt and there's nothing anyone can do to fix him. He's damaged beyond repair.

  
"Sure. Of course. Don't worry." Appeasing her one last time.

"Quinn, Franny’s fine. It was just a scratch."

  
"Sure… okay... I gotta go.” His final words to her have barely escaped his lips before regret overcomes him.

  
“Carrie...!?" There's no answer. She's gone. Their connection is dead. "I'm sorry," Quinn whispers the words he should have said, his voice trembling.

  
He puts down his phone and throws back the rest of his drink while signaling to the bartender for another. The sudden rush of alcohol to his head provides a few precious seconds of euphoria, which only increases his thirst for more.

  
The small bar is almost empty, only a couple of pathetic regulars like himself, all attempting to escape their lives in the bottom of a bottle. The Christmas lights strung on the rail of the bar, intended for seasonal cheer in the dingy room, instead illuminate the misery on each patron’s face.

  
The bartender moves lazily toward Quinn and refills his glass.

  
“So, what's the occasion?”

  
“Huh?”

  
“You're drinking the good stuff tonight.”

  
“Well, it is a holiday.”

  
“You don't like talking much, do you?”

  
“No.”

  
“So, what do ya think about Keane? She seems like a real cunt to me.”

  
“I take it you didn't vote for her.” Quinn plays along, deciding it's the fastest way to end this agonizing conversion.

  
“Damn right! Who's gonna protect our Second Amendment rights now? That bitch’ll do away with ‘em as soon as she’s in office.”

  
“You think that guns should be available to anyone?”

  
“Hell yeah! As long as they ain't no terrorist or criminal. The only thing that stops a good guy with a gun is a bad guy with a gun,” the bartender spews, grinning to himself, unaware of the error in his rhetoric.

  
Quinn’s face remains stoic as he leans forward on his stool, his gaze penetrating. “What if, one night, there's a guy in your bar that's had too much to drink and he just loses his shit?” Quinn's voice is a soft monotone. “He's not a terrorist, he's just some crazy ex-soldier. Let's say he’s got a gun. It's right in his pocket, so he can get to it easily. He may even have a limp and a bad hand, but he's still an accurate marksman. You wanna fuck with that guy? Take a chance that you'll be faster when you go for your gun?”

  
Quinn knocks back his shot in one swallow and bangs the glass down on the bar, making the bartender jump, his icy stare unwavering.

  
“Another,” Quinn demands.

  
“Yeah. I see your point.” The bartender fills the glass to the top, his hand shaking, and walks to the other end of the bar, cautiously looking back over his shoulder at Quinn.

  
He normally would have felt satisfaction in skillfully dealing with this kind of misogynistic asshole, but it's not there. So he drinks some more. His mind, again, goes to her.

  
This time, it’s the beautiful memory of the night of her father's funeral, when they’d kissed under the stars. He remembers how her lips had felt and tasted, and how hopeful he'd been that she may love him back. Those brief moments of hope had been quickly erased when she’d left for Missouri and the darkness, once again, called him back to his real home.

  
He should have died in the tailor’s shop. He should have died in Syria. He should have died from that gunshot wound. He should have died in that gas chamber. Hell, he should have died at Walden’s memorial service, but he was out drinking then, too. But he hadn't. They say he is lucky to have survived, but he's forever haunted by things he can't unsee or undo.

  
Now she has to take care of him. A fucking cripple who can't even button his own shirt. Can't tie his own shoes. Who breaks a drinking glass at breakfast on the morning of Christmas Eve because his hand can't hold onto it. He's not even able to help her clean up the shards of glass that glisten on the kitchen floor, or prevent her daughter from cutting her finger on the sliver left behind.

  
Quinn finishes his drink and slowly gets up from the barstool. He stumbles out of the bar, the biting cold air stiffening his already weak limbs.

  
The snowflakes are swirling around him as he shuffles along the snow-covered sidewalk, walking his last few steps in a life that should never have been. The glow of the moon catches his eye — he wishes he could have given that to her. Thrown a lasso around it and pulled it down. A bitter grin almost crosses his pale lips at this thought; the absurdity of a suicidal assassin waxing poetic.

  
He doesn't want her to think any of this was her fault, so his death can't appear to be a suicide. Jumping off of the Brooklyn Bridge is not an option; drama was never his style, anyway. He decides to make it look accidental by pretending to slip crossing the street, just as Carrie had forewarned, unable to get up before being struck by a passing truck.

  
The streets are empty now, so he waits anxiously for a truck to pass by — any vehicle large enough and going fast enough to take him out. To put an end to _him_. It's better this way. Better for Carrie. Beautiful Carrie.

  
There's no letter this time, no need for another goodbye. The words he’d written to her three years before still convey exactly what's in his heart.

  
_I loved you._

  
He sees it now in the distance. A large yellow delivery truck, moving too fast on the icy road. This is it. His teeth clench tightly as he steps into the street, looking up tearfully at the moon, as if saying his last goodbye. As the truck approaches, Quinn readies himself to fall to the ground, his only hope now is for it to be swift. He's paid dearly for his sins already, suffering so much pain; mercy doesn't seem like such an exorbitant request.

  
Time stands still as Quinn breathes in deeply, his world turning silent and black, Carrie’s face appearing before him — desperately willing her image to be etched in his memory for eternity.

  
He walks into the street.

  
A sudden scream, amplified in the still night air, brings him instantly back to reality. A man, appearing out of nowhere, falls to the ground a few feet in front of him, unmoving and in the direct path of the oncoming truck. The truck that was meant for him. _His_ way out. Adrenaline shoots through his body and, almost as if muscle memory completely takes over, he grabs and hauls the man to his feet, swiftly pulling him back to the curb as the truck speeds by them, horn blaring and tires screeching. They both fall to the ground, Quinn banging his lip on impact.

  
"Fuck me,” Quinn mutters as he feels the warm blood trickling down his chin, his lip beginning to rhythmically throb.

  
Quinn slowly stands up, staring down at the back of the minimally conscious man lying at his unsteady feet.

  
"Hey. Can you hear me? Are you hurt...? Hey!" Quinn reaches down and gently shakes the man’s shoulder. He rolls him over onto his back and moves closer, the moonlight casting a faint glow, allowing him to focus on the man's shockingly familiar features.

  
When the man gingerly sits up, Quinn's eyes widen in astonishment. He is staring straight into the face of a dead man.

  
“Hey, Quinn. Did you miss me?” The man smirks, rendering Quinn speechless.

  
Quinn finally finds his voice, as if in a dream, expecting the image before him to suddenly vanish. "No… no! You're fucking dead. _What the fuck_? You died! They hanged you. Carrie saw you die…! _Nicholas Brody is dead!"_

  
Quinn takes a step backward as the man rises and methodically dusts the snow from his starched trenchcoat. "Yeah, well, I did. Die. And I went to heaven, which was kind of a surprise, considering. I thought for sure they'd send me, you know…" He points down to the ground. "They’re pretty forgiving up there, it turns out.”

  
“Who the fuck are you? What the _fuck_ is going on?”

  
Brody ignores the question as he puts a hand to his neck, massaging the kinks. “But you can forget that whole seventy-two virgin thing, that's total bullshit."

  
"You can't be here. It's impossible. I've had too much to drink, or… or maybe I'm having another stroke." Quinn inhales sharply and tries to calm himself, his jaw twitching wildly. "Nicholas Brody is dead," Quinn says again, aware that there's nobody to convince but himself. Brody tries unsuccessfully to fight back a smile.

  
"Or is it me?" He pauses briefly, the realization hitting him at once. "Am I fucking dead?"

  
Nicholas Brody’s face tightens, deeply solemn. “Quinn, I have something to tell you.”

  
Quinn stares at Brody, still stunned and uncomprehending.

  
“QUINN, I AM YOUR FATHER.”

  
Long seconds tick by before Brody finally bursts out laughing, pleased with his joke, as Quinn stumbles back, moving away.

  
"Wait. Wait, Quinn. Listen, I'm just fucking with you. I'm here to help you. You're not dead. Believe it or not, I'm your guardian angel. Well, ASC, Angel Second Class, because I haven't earned my wings yet. They're forgiving, but not _that_ forgiving."

  
An eerie silence hangs in the air as Quinn slowly turns and begins to walk away, stumbling, utterly bewildered. Brody follows Quinn down the street, his footsteps silent as he marches past the surrounding row homes, all decorated with Christmas lights, now blinking in perfect time to the beat of an unheard drum.

  
"See, the deal is, I earn my wings by helping you out of this clusterfuck," Brody explains earnestly, easily keeping pace with Quinn’s unsteady gait. "So you need to let me help you. It's the least you can do after putting a hole in my hand and almost taking me out."

  
Quinn stops abruptly, turning to face Brody. The snow continues to fall as the two men stare intensely at each other, Quinn still waiting for Brody to evaporate and for this shit show to come to an end.

  
"Even if you are real — and you aren't, because that would be _fucking_ crazy, what could you possibly do to help me?"

  
"Fuck, Quinn. I appear out of nowhere, back from the dead, I stop you from killing yourself, and you think I can't help you? I know what happened to you. I know about the gas and the stroke. I know you're in love with Carrie, and as much as this kills me — so to speak — I have to convince you that your life's worth living. That's my mission. I'm still a soldier, after all. I'm just working for a different commanding officer. Which does have its upside. It certainly beats the hell out of doing Abu Nazir’s bidding. Or Saul’s, that's for fucking sure.”

  
"How are you gonna help me? Do you have a time machine? Or a magic wand to cure my stroked-out brain? Huh? Can you bring back all the people I've killed? For national _fucking_ security?" Quinn says, his voice shaking.

  
He looks away and inhales sharply, unable to admit aloud what he wants most of all.

  
_Can you make her love me?_

  
"Quinn, your mouth is bleeding."

  
Quinn puts his hand to his mouth and wipes some of the blood from his lips, staring intently at the crimson fluid that now stains his fingers.

  
“Yeah. It is,” he replies flatly, but unable to disguise the fear in his voice. “Well, considering I’m probably dead, I may as well go get another drink.” He pauses briefly, pondering. “Can ghosts drink?”

  
Without waiting for an answer, he starts to walk again, trying to remember the direction of the bar, suddenly feeling far too sober for this shit.

  
Brody puts his hand on Quinn's shoulder and spins him around. "Look, Quinn. You have a lot to live for. And even if you were pretty much an asshole when I was alive, you were right not to trust me. You're not the bad guy. You killed the bad guys, and saved other lives in the process."

  
"What the fuck do you know anyway? I am a bad guy. Just like you."

  
"What about Carrie?"

  
"What about her?"

  
"Quinn, she loves you whether you believe it or not. And after everything you survived, losing you now would kill her. You can't do that to her if you really love her."

  
"I _do_ love her, you prick!" Quinn confesses, his confusion turning to anger.

  
Quinn finds a bench and wipes off enough snow so he is able to sit, ignoring the cold wetness that seeps through his pants and penetrates his skin. He lowers his head and runs his good hand through his hair as Brody sits down next to him.

  
"This is just perfect. I ask for a miracle and I get _you_ — a fuckin' guardian angel in training. Why not send Bin Laden? Why not Hitler?”

  
Quinn leans back and looks up at the bright moon. "Maybe you're right... maybe it'd just be better if I'd never been born. Can you make _that_ happen?" Quinn asks sarcastically.

  
"Umm. I'm actually not sure. Let me make a quick phone call."

  
"Are you fucking kidding me? You're gonna call God on your iPhone?”

  
"For fuck’s sake… don't be stupid, I'm not calling _God_. I told you, I haven't gotten my wings yet. I've been dealing with his assistant, George."

  
"Hey, George, it's me, Brody… Well how the fuck am I supposed to know you have caller ID… sorry… again." Brody rolls his eyes. "So, can we do this or not? Really? Fu… fantastic!"

  
Brody hangs up, satisfied, and looks at Quinn. "So, yeah. It's done. You got your wish... you were never born."

  
A sudden gust of wind blows, scattering the virgin snow. Quinn rubs his eyes, expecting to find himself alone when he reopens them, but Brody is still sitting next to him, smiling smugly.

  
The snow immediately stops falling while thick, ominous clouds roll in swiftly, blotting out the stars and moon, sinking the night sky into a never-ending blackness that goes unnoticed by Quinn. He’s had enough of this insane apparition, he’s late and, given the suicide debacle, he opts to minimize Carrie’s wrath.

  
"Listen, great reunion, but I gotta go. It's late, and Carrie's gonna be pissed if I don't get home soon. You did your job, so you can go back to... get your halo, or... whatever. So, thanks."

  
Quinn stands up, hesitant and still dazed as Brody follows directly behind him.

  
"Quinn. You're not getting this. You got your wish. Carrie's not waiting for you. You don't exist."

  
Quinn takes a few steps away from Brody and suddenly stops, as he changes rapidly from perplexed to astonished.

  
"Quinn, your mouth isn't bleeding."

  
"This is really fucking weird." Quinn begins to walk back and forth, shifting the weight from one leg to the other. "My leg. My limp, it's... gone. And my hand... no tremor. Holy fuck! You did this?"

  
"Jesus, Quinn. How many times do I have to explain this to you. _You don’t exist_."

  
Brody's phone buzzes with a text from George.

  
“OK. Lord‘s name in vain. Not good. Got it.” Brody narrates, head downward, as he types his response.

  
Quinn, disregarding Brody, continues to test his regained muscle strength by walking, running and hopping around in circles, incautious of the icy sidewalk. "Fuck me… thanks, man. Really. Holy shit! Tell God or… George, thanks for the miracle, but I gotta go. I need to see Carrie."

  
Quinn turns away and briskly walks toward Carrie's brownstone, still oblivious to the changes around him. The twinkling lights and holiday decorations are absent from the now grim-looking houses. Quinn is blind to the darkness that surrounds him as he finds his way to Carrie's place, Brody following closely behind.

  
He searches his pockets for his keys to no avail.

  
"Fuck! I must have dropped them."

  
He knocks loudly on the door, waiting nervously for Carrie to appear on the other side.

  
"She's not there, Quinn. She doesn't live here."

  
"What are you talking about? Of course she lives here." Quinn bangs even louder this time.

  
"What the hell? It's pitch black inside," Quinn says as he peers through the front window. "Carrie! Open the goddamn door! What happened to all of the lights? She must have gone out to get something. I'll call her." Quinn digs into his pockets, this time in search of his phone — only to realize that it's gone as well.

  
"Shit. I'll have to go to Max's place for the spare keys."

  
Quinn races down the street, still in disbelief with his newly-mended body, while Brody stays right on his heels.

  
"Quinn! Max won't be there, either... he's dead," Brody yells at Quinn's back, forcing Quinn to stop and face him.

  
"What the fuck are you talking about? I just saw him yesterday."

  
"He died in Pakistan. During the embassy attack."

  
"Okay, now you’re really starting to piss me off. Go fuck off somewhere else... you don't know what you’re talking about. Max survived — I know, I was there."

  
"But you weren't there. Everyone who wasn't locked in the vault at the embassy died that day… _because_ you weren't there to save them."

  
"But I _was_ there!" Quinn begins to panic, his face awash in confusion.

  
"Wait. What about Carrie? What happened to Carrie? Tell me now, Brody!"

  
"Carrie was in the vault with Ambassador Boyd and the others. She survived."

  
Quinn calms at the news that Carrie wasn't hurt. "I need to find Saul and get this straightened out. None of this makes any goddamn sense."

  
"Well, that's not possible either."

  
"What do you mean? Where's Saul?"

  
“You weren't there to stop her when she made the call whether or not to take Haqqani out. And so she did it. Haqqani was killed, but so was Saul. It was all for nothing, Quinn. It didn't even prevent the attack. Tasneem was still able to get Haqqani's number two to go through with the attack on the embassy anyway. It was a massacre."

  
"I don't understand. They can't all be dead. What about Dar Adal? That motherfucker must still be alive. I know I never saved _his_ ass.”

  
"He's alive."

  
"Good, I think. I need to talk to him. You know how to find him, right?"

  
"Well, I guess I could use my Find Friends app." Brody looks at his phone and starts typing. "Got it. But he's on the other side of town. It’ll take us forever to walk and I haven't seen any cabs tonight."

  
"Fuck, Brody, you can't just transport us there with your Godphone?”

  
"This isn't Star Trek, Quinn. I can't just beam us across town." At that exact moment, Brody's phone buzzes. "It's George, hang on…”

  
“Really?” Brody voices into the phone. Then, crankily, “is it not too much to ask for some fuckin’ tech support before sending us down here? We’ve got Steve Jobs, for Christ’s sake… Shit, I know, I know, name in vain. I got it.” Clicking off, Brody looks at Quinn. “So, how do you like that? I _do_ have a Beam Me Up app. That's pretty fucking cool."

  
Brody swipes and taps at his phone and instantly they are standing in front of a Dunkin' Donuts in a busy, but seedy, part of the city. The eerie stillness is replaced by the sounds of motorcycles drag racing and people shouting. The darkness is replaced by the glow of fires burning in metal trash cans, scattered about the city sidewalks, providing warmth and light to dozens of vagrants.

  
"What the fuck? Are you sure this isn't hell? What would Dar be doing here?"

  
"Dar doesn't work for the CIA anymore. He got his ass kicked out of the agency after recruiting a teenage boy out of foster care and using him as a prostitute to gain access to a high level target. The kid reported him. Now he's a real pimp and works out of this Dunkin' Donuts."

  
"Fuck me."

  
The revolting memories that he had tried so hard to block out come flooding back to him, the choices he’d made so long ago that had paved the way for his present situation. What if he had refused Dar's deal and stayed in the foster home? Always foremost in his mind, he thinks of Carrie. He would never have known her, never have loved her. That thought alone overpowers him with emptiness — Carrie being subtracted from his soul is almost too much to bear.

  
Quinn takes a deep breath and walks into the brightly-lit donut shop, his eyes darting back and forth, searching for his former boss. He sees two scantily dressed women in the back, standing over a portly man eating a chocolate donut. The women hand over some cash and move away, revealing the face of the man behind them.

  
"Holy shit. It’s Dar fucking Adal. The motherfucker must weigh 300 pounds."

  
Quinn cautiously approaches Dar, cognizant of the burly goon guarding Dar from behind, not knowing if his miraculously-healed body is in fighting shape. Brody remains by the front door of the shop.

  
"Can I talk to you, alone?" Quinn says quietly, as Dar stares up at him sternly.

  
"Who's asking?"

  
"Dar, it's me. Quinn. Peter Quinn.”

  
"I don't know any Peter Quinn. Get lost before I have Jay throw you out."

  
" _You know me!_ You recruited me years ago. I was the youngest agent you ever trained. You don't remember?"

  
"The youngest guy I tried to recruit was a little pussy who turned me in when the job got too tough for him. That was definitely not you. No, I would remember a pretty face like yours." Dar pops the rest of the donut into his mouth and starts to slowly lick the chocolate off his fingers. "But if you're still interested, I'm sure we can work something out. I don't discriminate in my hiring. We serve all kinds here."

  
Repulsed, Quinn starts to slowly back away. "Brody, let's get the fuck out of here."

  
"Who are you talking to? Who's Brody?" Dar asks, a puzzled look on his face.

  
"He's right there." Quinn points toward Brody.

  
Dar and Jay exchange confused glances.

  
"What exactly have you been smoking? There's no one there. The smack dealer operates out of the Burger King down the street. I'm strictly a human trafficker. Now get the fuck out of here. Jay, escort this junkie outside.”

  
Quinn bolts for the door as Brody follows, not even trying to control his laughter. Jay is close behind as they exit the shop.

  
"That was fucked up,” Quinn reports, pulling on his hair in frustration. “Where the fuck are we, anyway? Are we still in Brooklyn?"

  
"Brooklyn?" Jay answers obtrusively. "You’ve lost your mind. This isn't Brooklyn anymore. It's Crumpland. Ronald Crump moved all the refuse here so they didn't have to mix in with the rest of the ' _real Americans_.' He renamed it after he won the election."

  
"Crump won the election? No. Keane won." Quinn says quizzically.

  
"Dude, what rock have you been living under? Crump won. He's the President-elect. He's not even sworn in yet and he's already fucking up the country… idiot! Now get the fuck outta here.” Jay disappears back into the shop.

  
"What the fuck, Brody? How could my nonexistence have affected the presidential election?"

  
" _Well_ , Elizabeth Keane was a senator during the time of Saul's kidnapping and the embassy attacks. She was head of the Intelligence Committee when Carrie sent the drone to kill Haqqani and Saul. Right before the election, there were some hacked emails of Keane’s that were made public, one implying she had approved the airstrike on the wedding. Of course, the email was completely falsified by the Russians, but the damage was done. Crump hit Keane hard during the campaign saying she was responsible for the wedding disaster, which led to the former CIA Director's murder by a fellow agent, and the embassy attack killing dozens of Americans. If Saul had lived, he would have been able to divert the blame to himself. Saul's death at Carrie's hand was the nail in Keane's coffin. So, yeah, you not being born fucked up the entire country."

  
"Fuck! What the fuck? None of this makes any goddamn sense... And you — _you_! Why would you, of all fuckin’ people, want to help me anyway?

  
"Hey, I didn’t choose this mission! I just need my fuckin’ wings. Those fuckers up there keep trying to redeem me knowing that I royally messed up with Carrie and Franny. It's fucking exhausting. I know I didn't treat Carrie right when I was alive, but I did love her. And Franny’s my kid. You could make them happy. That's _if_ you can get your shit together and stop feeling sorry for yourself. And, Quinn, letting people help you... it's not a sign of weakness. Believe me, I wish I had."

  
Quinn looks at Brody, realizing for the first time that they are more similar than not. Both used and discarded soldiers, ruined by the manipulative men controlling them.

  
"Please, I really need to see Carrie. Take me to see her." Quinn desperately pleads for Brody's help.

  
"You're not going to like it. She never got over killing Saul. It destroyed her career and she could never forgive herself. She's..."

  
Quinn grabs Brody by the shoulders, hands trembling. His eyes, pupils huge, glare directly into Brody's. "Tell me! Where the fuck is she?!"

  
The visceral need to protect Carrie is so intense, so powerful, that he can barely wait before Brody finally speaks again.

  
"She's at the bar where you hang out. She moved to Brooklyn for a security job in the private sector, but that didn't last long. She just fell apart... she's in bad shape, Quinn. She’s off her meds."

  
"Please, Brody."

  
"Okay, I'll take you to her."

  
Brody taps and swipes at his phone and they are immediately back in front of the bar where it all started. Quinn walks in and spots her immediately. She's alone at the bar, nursing a double shot of tequila. Her clothes are disheveled, hair uncombed. He approaches apprehensively, terrified to see this altered version of Carrie, yet his heart remains steadfast, quickening as he takes the seat next to hers.

  
"Carrie," Quinn whispers.

  
Carrie turns her head. Her eyes, vague and unfocused, wander lazily over his features and down his body. When her gaze finally returns to his, she smiles seductively and says, “damn, you're really hot. Have we fucked?”

  
Quinn reaches out his hand to hold hers. “Carrie, it’s me, Quinn,” he says, barely able to choke out the words.

  
Carrie traces the rim of her glass with a forefinger. “Quinn? It’s Quinn? Goddamn, I think I’d remember you.” She angles her head, moving their grasped hands to his knee.

  
“You really don’t know me?” Quinn's eyes fill up with tears as she looks at him without any recognition, searching his face for anything familiar.

  
"I'm sorry. I… I really don't."

  
Her words slur as she moves her hand up his thigh, inches from his groin. “But… I’d be open to making some memories with you.”

  
"Where's Franny, Carrie? What happened to Franny?"

  
Carrie removes her hand from his lap abruptly. “How do you know Franny?” Her eyes narrow as she gazes back at Quinn through her drunken haze, too inebriated to even wait for a response. “She's gone.” Carrie's eyes moisten as she hangs her head down. “They took her away from me. My sister. She said I couldn't take care of her cause I stopped taking my meds. What the fuck does she know, anyway?" Carrie laughs bitterly, pauses and takes a swig of the golden liquid in front of her. "Actually, she does know... I can't be a mom. Look at me. I can't even take care of myself." Carrie finishes the drink and wipes her cheeks dry. She shakes off her sadness and smiles reluctantly at Quinn.

  
"So, do you want to fuck or what? We can go back in the alley."

  
Quinn takes a long look at her. Her eyes are so sad, it breaks his heart. He leans in and kisses her gently on her perfect lips. He lingers there for a few precious moments, in case it’s the last time.

  
"Carrie, I've got to go. But I will be back. I promise. I'm going to try to make this right."

  
Quinn leaves the bar and races into the street, looking for Brody.

  
"Brody... Brody! Where the fuck are you? Goddammit, Brody! Help me! I don't care what happens to me. Fuck! I just want to live again! Please, let me live again."

  
Quinn hangs his head down, unable to hold back the tears. He sobs quietly into  his hands, finally understanding everything he may have lost, but also what he had just found… hope.

  
As he lifts his head to the brightened sky, his vision blurry with tears, he feels the falling snowflakes softly melting on his face. He thinks of her again. Carrie...

  
"Quinn! Where the hell have you been? Quinn! It's me, Max. Are you okay?"

  
Quinn suddenly realizes he’s standing in the middle of the street as Max leads him to the sidewalk.

  
"Quinn? I need to take you home. You're freezing and your lip is bleeding. What happened to you?"

  
"My mouth's bleeding?" Quinn touches his lip, feeling the wet blood on his hand. "Holy shit, my mouth's bleeding! I'm limping, too! Fuck yeah!"

  
Max looks him up and down. “Quinn, are you wasted?”

  
"Max. I need to go home. Take me home."

  
——

  
As Quinn enters the house, he sees Saul and Dar huddled together in deep conversation and Franny sitting under the glowing Christmas tree. She hops up to greet him, a delighted smile on her face as he rushes over to her, scooping her up in his arms.

  
"Peter! We missed you! Mommy was worried. She sent Uncle Max to look for you. Where were you?"

  
"I got lost and I couldn't find my way home. But someone special helped me so I could get back to you." He pulls Franny closer and kisses her cheek.

  
“Who?” asks Franny, wide-eyed.

  
Quinn, suddenly mesmerized by her blue eyes, identical to those of the man who just gifted him his life, smiles and says, “an angel, I think.”

  
“An angel!?” Franny excitedly exclaims.

  
“Yeah, something like that.”

  
Franny’s brow furrows, identical to her mother’s, determined to glean more information, “did you know her?”

  
“Him. And, yeah, I did. A long time ago.”

  
“Did he have wings? Did he fly?”

  
“He does now, Franny-bear.”

  
“Can I meet him?”

  
Quinn’s eyes mist as he gazes at Franny, unsure how to answer. “You will one day, Franny.”

  
“Why was he here?”

  
“Well, it’s Christmas Eve, Franny. Why do you think he was here?”

  
“Was he helping Santa? Did he give you presents?”

  
“He sure did.”

  
“Did he get you the Apple Watch? Mommy was afraid the buttons would be too hard for you.”

  
Quinn chuckles. “No, sweetie, he gave me something much better.”

  
“What?”

  
“This,” Quinn says simply, his free arm sweeping around. “And you.”

  
Franny’s eyes narrow with genetically gifted curiosity, and Quinn decides distraction is the only way out of the conversation. “How’s that finger?”

  
“Look! It’s all better, see? Mommy kissed it and made it all better.”

  
"Quinn! Oh my God, Quinn!" Carrie races down the stairs and throws herself into Quinn's arms. "You're home! I was so worried."

  
Carrie leans back, her chin wobbling as she looks up at him. "What the fuck, Quinn? You were supposed to be home hours ago. Where the hell were you?"

  
“I'm sorry.” He places Franny down and embraces Carrie, his arms enveloping her as his body presses tightly against hers, never wanting to let go.

  
"I love you," he whispers softly in her ear, “so much." He pulls away to gaze into her eyes, then at her mouth as they slowly move closer, this time their lips gently meet, soft and tender.

  
Warmth spreads throughout his cold body, melting away his sadness and fear. His hand lovingly touches  her cheek as their kiss deepens. Carrie's hands grip tightly around his neck, moving him even closer to her.

  
Carrie slowly breaks contact, her cheeks flushed. She looks into his eyes, smiles, and finally says the words he's been longing to hear.

  
"I love you, too."

  
Applause breaks out through the room as Carrie and Quinn slowly come to the realization that they have an audience.

  
“It's about time!” Saul exclaims uncorking a bottle with a loud _pop_ and he starts filling glasses with champagne. “I was beginning to think this day would never come.”

  
Quinn smiles before echoing Saul’s long-ago words back to him: “Have a little faith, Saul.”

  
Saul good-naturedly slaps Quinn’s bicep. “Here’s the thing, Quinn. I do,” and he moves away to fill Dar’s glass.

  
"Where are Maggie, Bill, and the girls?" Quinn asks, his arms still wrapped tightly around Carrie, unable to stop looking at her, his lips in a permanent smile.

  
"They couldn't make it. The turnpike was too icy, so they had to stop on the road for the night. They'll be here in the morning, once they're cleared."

  
Saul holds up his glass. "How about a toast? Dar?"

  
"To Peter Quinn. The luckiest son of a bitch in town."

  
"Dar! Language." She looks disapprovingly at Dar and cocks her head in the direction of Franny.

  
"Really? Living with you two? I'm sure she's heard worse." Dar swallows his entire glass of bubbly in one shot and places it on coffee table. "Come on, Saul. Let's leave these three alone. I'm dying for some waffles. I know this all-night diner that's open on Christmas Eve." Dar and Saul move toward the door, leaving Max standing in the living room, mute.

  
Dar loudly clears his throat. "Max, that means you too." Max, grinning with joy at being included, grabs his coat from the nearby chair.

  
Everyone says their goodbyes as the three men depart. “Merry Christmas!” Carrie and Franny call out in unison.

  
“Merry Christmas,” Quinn echoes quietly, looking adoringly at his two beautiful girls.

  
Quinn considers the events of the past few hours. Was it all a drunken dream? Some side effect of his stroke or the sarin? It must have been. He still has his limp, his tremor, he's still unable to tie a shoe or button a shirt. But here he is, with her, loving her and she's loving him back. So much remains the same, yet everything has changed.

  
“Mommy! Peter met an angel! A boy angel!”

  
Carrie blinks from Quinn to Franny, then back again, her eyebrows lifting with skepticism. “Really? And did this angel drink Johnnie Walker too?”

  
“Actually, I think he used to drink Jim Beam.”

  
Carrie looks up at him with amused accusation. “So, you _were_ at the bar. Who’s this so-called angel of yours? Clearly he was a good influence.”

  
“Yeah, well, he had some epically shitty karma to work off.”

  
“When can I meet him? Would I like him?”

  
“You already have. And you did like him. Too much.”

  
“Who is he?”

  
“We’re all old… friends.”

  
“Quinn, if you don’t come clean right now I might — I don’t fucking know — return the Apple Watch I got for you.”

  
“Carrie, it’s all good. He’s good.”

  
“Quinn, are you sure you're feeling alright? I don't think I've ever seen you smile this much… did you take too many Percocet?”

  
“No. And I’m excellent.”

  
“You know, if you mix that shit with booze it can cause hallucinations.”

  
“Really?” His eyes narrow briefly as he considers the possibility.

  
“Well, can you tell him thanks for me? For you, being here, like this. Best Christmas present ever.”

  
“He knows.”

  
“How does he know?”

  
“Without him, there never would have been an us.”

  
“Peter Quinn, that almost sounds like fate.”

  
He looks at Carrie, the glow of the Christmas tree lights illuminating her face, allowing Quinn to see the love in her eyes. Maybe it had been there all along. Quinn starts to pull her in for another kiss, but Carrie resists, leaving Quinn puzzled.

  
"I could get used to this," Carrie says with a grin, "but Franny."

  
"Oh, yeah, Franny," as Quinn sighs with relief.

  
"Franny. Time for bed. The sooner you go to bed, the sooner Santa will come to deliver your presents." Carrie turns back to Quinn. "And we need to get you to bed too, so… so I can give you _my_ present,” her voice shy, her smile playful.

  
“You have something for me better than the watch?” Quinn tenderly brushes the hair from her forehead.

  
“Well, yes. I think I may just have exactly what you want.” Carrie’s hand touches his arm, caressing it slowly up and down, her eyes never leaving his.

  
“Fuck me.” This time she doesn't resist as he pulls her to him, covering her mouth with his, their lips and tongues gently exploring, both of them lost in this blissful moment.

  
"Mommy! Mommy! Stop kissing Peter and tuck me in! Right now!” Franny shouts, jumping up and down, grabbing Carrie's hand and pulling her away from Quinn, toward the stairs.

  
The sound of a bell ringing brings everybody to a halt.

  
"What's that? New ringtone?" Carrie asks.

  
Quinn takes out his cellphone from his pocket and glances at the text.

  
\- _Love them like I should have. Thanks for the wings! N.B._

  
"Mommy! An angel just got his wings!"

  
"Huh? Where did you hear that, sweetie?" Carrie inquires.

  
"From a movie we watched in school yesterday. There was a very sad man and an angel helped him feel better. At the end, the man was with his family and he was happy again, so the angel got his wings. Just like Peter’s angel tonight!”

  
Carrie shakes her head and laughs, looking back at Quinn, who is struggling to maintain a neutral expression to hide the racing thoughts in his head — _this really fucking happened_.

  
“Holy shit,” Quinn whispers under his breath.

  
"Quinn. Is everything okay? Who sent the text?”

  
"Everything's great. Just an old colleague. A soldier.” Quinn explains, a dimpled grin returning to his face.

  
Quinn texts back.

  
- _Fucking wonderful._

  
Quinn presses send and puts his phone back into his pocket. He gently collects Franny in his good arm and lifts her up, her head resting sleepily on his shoulder. He pulls Carrie close to his body and looks briefly up to the sky, his eyes moist. And for the second time tonight and probably in his entire adult life, he whispers a prayer.

  
“Thank you.”

 

  
THE FUCKING END!

**Author's Note:**

> The parts about Crump, my AU version of Trump, were written prior to the election. It initially was intended to be political humor/satire, but has since become our unfortunate reality.


End file.
